Battle Weary
by KuryakinGirl
Summary: Aaron Cross is losing himself, but it's not the first time. Movie missing sequence


Disclaimer—Characters are inspired by Robert Ludlum, created by Tony Gilroy and Dan Gilroy. No copyright infringement intended. Any similarity to events or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Author's Notes—Oh, Jeremy Renner, what have you done to my fandoms? They keep expanding, thanks to you. Dedicated to my dear friend Cindy Ryan. Thanks for taking a look at this one… and every other fic I write. :) ~K

Battle Weary—Aaron Cross is losing himself, but it's not the first time.

* * *

He couldn't remember the last time he'd had trouble with anything. He was so used to everything seeming to just _happen_ in his brain that, when it didn't, when he had to struggle to put the pieces together, to try to figure out what was going on, it was beyond frightening. It was like he was losing himself, and it had taken so long for him to find who he was in the first place.

No one knew who he was before, when he was Kenneth Kitson. His mother had died young, and his father had never been in the picture. He'd been shuffled off, from one relative's house to another, eventually to complete strangers' because no one could handle him. He asked too many questions—no, he _demanded_ too many answers. He was uncontrollable, emotional, but why shouldn't he be? No one expected anything from him.

He was told, repeatedly, that he'd never be great, that he'd never do anything important. He'd be just another mindless drone, wandering the streets of some mediocre town in some nothing existence.

He hadn't wanted that, then or ever.

The Army had seemed like the best place to escape. He wanted to be all that he could be, to show his teachers, his so-called guardians, and others that he was something more, that he was worth it, that his life wasn't meaningless.

When the recruiter had told him he'd never make it, he refused to believe it. He took the assessments two, three, and four times a week, sometimes a day. He was desperate for the answer to be something different than what he was used to—for it to become something real and tangible, for it to be his escape from the hell of wandering from house to house that had been his childhood.

It was his determination more than anything that changed the recruiter's mind, and he knew that. He was thankful for it. It was as though there had always been a tiny, miniscule ember of hope buried deep in his soul, hidden somewhere in the very pit of his stomach, and it was suddenly stoked, burning slowly brighter and brighter by the second until it exploded on some dusty, sandy road in Afghanistan.

He may have never been the sharpest tool in the shed, but he knew enough to recognize a test when he heard one. After all, he'd undergone far too many when he was trying to enlist. But, the man asking the questions wasn't as kind or as understanding as his recruiter. He knew that. He knew he was in deep shit to be talking with whoever it was, in the antiseptic clean of the room after the bombing.

Didn't they realize that if they sent him back that he had no home to go to? Didn't they realize that sending him away was a death sentence? Without the Army, he'd have no purpose. Without a purpose, he'd live up to all those expectations he'd hated.

His head hurt. His eyes stung. There was a ringing in his ears he was afraid would never end. He wasn't sure if it was the pain medication that had done the talking when he asked to stay or if it was somehow the magic words that let him remain as an employee of the government.

It was the first time he'd seen her, and it was only for the briefest of seconds as he was wheeled to an exam room.

She stuck out in his head, though. Surrounded by the sterility of the clean rooms and the emotionless agents in their pristine lab coats, her dark eyes held a moment's calming reassurance. In those three seconds of eye contact, he realized that maybe everything would work out for the best.

When he woke later, everything was more than okay. But the questions asked of him turned to statements. Kenneth Kitson was gone, having died on the side of the road halfway around the world from the people who told him he'd never amount to anything.

While it hurt to realize that they had been _right_, he hoped that Aaron Cross could be everything he hadn't been.

As he put the finishing touches on the doctor's new passport, he realized he was so close to relapsing into to Kenneth. He'd be damned if he went backward. Outcome may have created a monster, but they should've known what they were getting into—that they'd given him a way out and he'd desperately clung to it. They'd trained him to fight, and he'd continue as long and as hard as he could.

If the worst happened—if Kenneth were to resurface for a battle—he just hoped that Aaron would win the war.

* * *

End.


End file.
